


Windermere

by dioscureantwins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Pining, Retirement, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 16:15:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1191624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“I’ll be seeing you, then,”</i> Sherlock had said before sending the coat swirling around his form, which was still as trim as the day they first met, and walking out of Greg’s life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Windermere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frozen_delight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozen_delight/gifts).



> Beta: many thanks to the wonderful swissmarg for yet another incredibly fast and very helpful beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine of course.
> 
> Author's note: Written for the lovely frozen_delight to thank her for the wonderful beta job she did on one of my series and for being such a sharp reader and insightful commenter and a good friend in general.

“…realise, despite Donovan’s, or I should say CSI Donovan’s…” Greg pauses to throw a glance at his former sergeant, who has been his boss these last three years. A rather awkward situation, but between the two of them they’ve managed to steer their tiny ship – built over the years out of the planks and nails of respect and professionalism and caulked on a regular basis by genuine fondness – through the shoals and past the rocky outcrops that comprise the treacherous shoreline of Scotland Yard internal politics. 

“…kind words,” he continues, “that half a year from now you will all have forgot I worked here once.” Loud denials erupt in several corners of the canteen, Donovan's and Dimmock's the loudest among them. Which is good, because he knows he’s a good copper and it’s great to have the fact acknowledged by the few people on the force he does actually respect. But he’s equally well aware that in three days he’ll be sitting in a train that will take him to sodding Windermere of all places, so he can live close to his daughter, who’s having a hard time raising his grandchildren, what with her getting divorced five years ago, and who is essentially to blame for that? Because he and Cynthia had set their children a great example, hadn’t they?

Windermere; he bloody hates the goddamned place. Nothing going on there all day but the lake lapping at the shore. He could go for walks in the mountains, except he’s more of a city bloke. All that wide, empty space makes him feel spooked. He went for a ramble on Hampstead Heath last summer; after two hours he almost ran to the Tube for a train to take him back to the city and his local for a sustaining pint. There’s only one decent pub in the whole of Windermere. They don’t even have a proper football club. Well, maybe he’ll take up fishing. Though, frankly, the idea of sitting staring at that stupid lake all day would make him cry if he weren’t a grown man.

_Will you get on with it?_ a voice in his head berates him and why does that voice have the pitch and diction of...? But bloody actual hell, yes, he’s in the middle of his farewell speech, now’s not the time to start berating himself for blowing up his marriage over some… Great, back to the speech, what was he on about? Time to end it, he supposes. As well as putting a stop to these conversations with himself in his head he’s fallen prone to lately. Christ, the joys of old age. 

He hears himself ladle up another helping of inanities and then there’s an explosion of applause, along with whistles and catcalls, so he’s pulled it off. 

“Cheers,” he shouts and heaves a sigh of relief as he steps from the improvised dais, mind still nattering on of its own accord. 

Well, he’s not that old, he’s got another fifteen years ahead of him at least, or so he presumes. What is the current average life span of the average British male? Eighty-two, eighty-three years? Somewhere around that, he’ll have to look it up on Wikipedia. It’s just the sort of seemingly irrelevant information Sherlock would have handy somewhere in that mind palace of his, to whip out and solve another puzzle that had kept the whole Yard milling around in a state of bafflement for weeks. Greg could have asked him right now if the arrogant git had deigned to put in an appearance at his retirement party. 

“Greg, here, great speech.” Someone - oh, Gregson, still another year before he’ll be retiring - presses a pint into his hand. 

“Thanks, mate.” Gregson and he have never really got on, Gregson being the type who spends most of his time busily sawing at the legs of the chairs on which his colleagues are seated, instead of doing any actual work. Thankfully, he won’t have to silently fume over the man’s brownnosing of their superiors any longer, so he might as well take leave of him on a friendly note.

Still, he’s grateful to be spared from having to engage in small talk with the fellow by Molly sidling up to him, her husband, Martin - another Sherlock lookalike, except this one didn’t fly off - a few steps behind her. 

“So it’s true,” Molly says, and rubs her hand up and down his arm a few times. “I… I thought you were joking when you told me. Windermere. Well, it’s supposed to be lovely, what with the lake and the mountains, isn’t it, Martin?” She pivots to her husband in search of conversational assistance – the combination of Windermere and Greg choosing to live there clearly beyond her – and Greg can’t help noticing the sparkle in her eyes when she looks at Martin; it’s still there, even after having been married to the guy for over twelve years now.

“Oh yes, it looks very impressive from up in the air,” Martin confirms his wife’s words, and sod it, his eyes sparkle as brightly as hers. Between the two of them they risk setting the canteen on fire, what with the streamers hanging from the ceiling and the helium-filled balloons floating around them. “Too bad they decided to close the Carlisle Lake District Airport last year.”

“Errm, yes,” Greg manages. Even now, after having known the bloke for such a long time, and being genuinely appreciative of him because he makes Molly very happy and she deserves that, Martin’s exceptional talent for introducing the concept of aeronautics into the conversation three seconds straight after blundering into it, has Greg bamboozled. “Never heard of it before now,” he ends with a gesture of his hand, and takes a fortifying swig of beer.

“It’s never been a really important airport,” begins Martin. Thankfully, Molly interrupts him before he has launched himself into full take-off mode. 

“Darling, Greg isn’t necessarily as interested in airports as we are,” she says, softening the blow with a quick kiss on Martin’s cheekbone. 

Once again Greg is struck by the close resemblance of that cheekbone to another one. Except this cheekbone is covered in freckles while that other one is still free from blemishes, as smooth and pale as the day Greg first set eyes on it. 

The memory has been with him all these twenty-five years. He was looking down at the toe of his shoe as it nudged the ribs of yet another junkie tosser passed out on God only knows what kind of filthy substance during one of their habitual round-ups of the drug dens in Southwark. Walking around the district now, amidst all the fancy toffs doing their fancy shopping in their fancy shopping arcades and retiring to their fancy penthouses, you wouldn’t believe the whole area had once been covered with crack houses, erupting as viciously as acne on the skin of an unlucky sixteen-year-old.

The boy? - man? - had groaned and turned on him suddenly, slotting his long, incredibly thin fingers around Greg’s ankle in a vicelike grip. 

“I advise you against that method of waking people,” he growled. “Most people coming down from a cocaine high are a bit irritable, and your wife would rather not be a widow yet, not with your youngest being but three weeks old.” 

“What?”

“You heard me.” The boy let go of Greg’s ankle and pulled himself upright, raising his skinny torso from his bed of rags with a languid grace Greg only ever saw employed by those posh actors impersonating nineteenth-century aristocrats in the Beeb period dramas Cynthia was addicted to. If you’d asked his opinion he’d have told you he thought they’d overdone it when they were taught those movements in acting school or wherever. This kid, however, appeared to be a natural. Something that was further confirmed by his accent when he opened his mouth again.

“An addition to the happy nuclear family. Not your idea. Lost your touch with the feeding bottle, or no, the first two were breastfed until they were six months old but this one won’t drink your wife’s milk, so you’ve been fighting to feed the child this morning. Your wife’s exhausted, as are you, the child hasn’t stopped crying once since it was born, you didn’t want the little brat to begin with, salary’s barely adequate to feed and clothe and house the four of you, let alone five. That frown on your forehead is a telltale sign, Detective Inspector, as is the stain on your jacket.”

Stupefied, Greg bent his head to nearly end up with his nose amidst a mass of dark curls. “There,” the phantom announced, uppity voice dripping with smug satisfaction, and, Jesus _fucking_ Christ, sniffing loudly at Greg’s jacket. “I knew I was right. _Numila Aptamil_ , uggh, horrid stuff. Have you any idea of its actual sugar content? Small wonder obesity is speeding it up to the top of the list of the nation’s main health problems.”

“What?” was all he could utter, head spinning under the attack of verbosity delivered with the speed of a bullet fired from a Glock 17. By now the talkative junkie was gone from Greg’s personal space so he could look down at his jacket, where the stain of coughed-up infant formula was indeed horribly visible. _Thank you ever so much for not pointing it out to me, Gregson, you twat,_ Greg thought and glared in the direction of his colleague, who was busy kicking yet another piece of human waste out of its drug-induced slumber.

“I suppose you want to arrest me now, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” a bored drawl reminded him of his own duties.

“What?” he heard himself say again. Great, he sounded like a total idiot. To recover himself he inserted his hand into his coat pocket for the pair of handcuffs he habitually carried there. “Yes, I’m… Excuse me, what did you say? How do you know my name?”

“I guess you’ll be needing these then?” the smartarse announced, dangling Greg’s handcuffs in front of his nose. “Detective Inspector G. Lestrade,” he continued and produced Greg’s ID from his left sleeve.

“Jesus, will you give me those?” Greg growled, making a swipe for the cuffs and his ID, and then he had the misfortune to look up and catch his first true glimpse of the face of William Sherlock _bloody_ Scott Holmes, and, well, the rest was, as they say, history.

“Sherlock’s not here then,” Molly invades his reminiscences, casting a look at the crowd bobbing around them in the stuffed confines of the canteen. 

At first, Greg had protested the choice of venue, arguing it would be far too big for the party and proposing their usual as a better fitting alternative. Sally had muttered something about costs and budgets, mentioning one of the few aspects of his work Greg wouldn’t miss at all. He’d offered to bear the brunt of the costs. This had caused Sally to roll her eyes and ask when he would ever learn about internal politics and that had reminded him of an aspect he would miss even less. He’d shrugged his shoulders and given up, adjusting himself to the idea of a soulless diversion in the emptily echoing hollows of the Yard’s personnel café. 

To be frank, he is a bit overwhelmed by the number of people who have decided to roll in to say their goodbyes to him. No, to be honest, he's amazed. It feels like he’s part of the crowd waiting to enter Wembley stadium. Well, maybe they’ve all come for the Yard’s notoriously soggy canapés.

His gaze follows Molly’s. Jesus, even Mike Stamford – never more than a casual acquaintance at best – has turned up, together with his wife. He hasn’t seen them since they moved to Cardiff, and that was - how long, over ten years ago now? They've kept in loose touch, exchanging Christmas and birthday cards, and Greg thinks Mike might even have sent a present to Robbie when he got married. They narrowly missed meeting each other when Molly’s second child was born, but for Mike to come all the way over for his retirement party, that means something. 

Greg swallows. He’s grateful, he truly is. And Sherlock _did_ say goodbye to him three days ago, in Greg’s office, after closing their last case. “I’ll be seeing you, then,” he said, throwing Greg one of those lopsided smiles of his that made him look impossibly young – far younger than his fifty-two years, even though his curls were tinged with grey now. He’d raised his hand before sauntering off, fingers inserting themselves into the side pockets of his Belstaff. 

“Excuse me.” Greg grips Molly by the shoulders and pecks her on the cheeks. “Thank you for coming, Molly. But I have to go say hello to Mike. All the best. You too, Martin.” His hand moves to grab the fingers of the other man and he wonders anew how much they resemble Sherlock’s, even the feel of them against the skin of his palm. Molly Hooper may not have pulled off marrying her favourite sociopath, but she certainly managed to pull off the next best thing.

“Oh!” Molly latches her arms around his neck. “You too, Greg,” she sniffles. He realises with horror that she's crying. “And remember whenever you want to visit London you’ll always be welcome. We do have a spare room and you’re welcome to use it as often as you like.” 

“Yes, yes.” He pats her on the back. “Bloody hell, Molly, it’s only Windermere. It’s not the end of the world, you know.”

“No.” She lets go of him, blushing and wiping at her eyes with her hand. “No, I do realise that. I’m sorry, Greg. I’m being silly and irrational, I know.”

“You’re not.” Greg smiles but Martin is even faster, drawing his wife close while blushing fiercely himself. 

“You’re the most wonderful woman in the whole world,” he declares, his voice high with vehemence. 

His own eyes suddenly blinded by tears, Greg turns on his heels. He had that once, with Cynthia. That… that… _passion_. He’d fallen for her abundance of sun-kissed, golden hair first and then he’d discovered how kind she was, and how generous. She was mad about children, mad about dogs and mad about him. Christ, they’d loved each other. They hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other. They had slowed down some after Robbie was born and some more after Cindy – children tired you out – but not much. Cynthia was a passionate woman. Even when she was pregnant with Steven – and he’d been so angry with her for talking him into it, he hadn’t wanted a third one and Cindy was ten years old by then, what would they do with another baby, damnit – even during that time when they’d been shouting in frustration at each other, they’d still kissed and hugged and said they loved each other and he’d meant it, meant it every time he said it. Despite their mixed feelings they’d continued to go at it like rabbits, right up until the time of her delivery. She was the best possible woman for him. If only he had been off-duty that particular day. If only he’d never set foot in that cursed ruin. 

“Mike! Betty! You shouldn’t have,” Greg greets the Stamfords, clapping Mike on his meaty shoulder – the man has grown even fatter and he’s a doctor for Christ’s sake – and swiping his lips past Betty’s ear.

Except, he didn’t really mean that, of course. The idea of life without Sherlock was simply beyond him, and hadn’t he shown these last eighteen years he could manage perfectly fine without Cynthia.

“Aw, come on, Greg, you only retire once,” Mike shouts over the roar surfing around them. “Came over to learn how to throw a proper retirement party. That’s quite a crowd you’ve assembled here, Greg.”

“Don’t listen to a word he says, Greg.” Betty swats a hand at her husband’s shoulder. “They’re doing a reprise of _Les Mis_ and we somehow missed it the first time it was on. So we decided to make a weekend of it.”

“But that show ran for years.” Sherlock’s face pops up in Greg’s mind, beaming with wicked glee as he recounted how his stuffy, secretive brother Mycroft sat suffering through the interminable horror, together with their parents, who were, apparently, fanatical lovers of over-scored musicals. 

“I know,” Mike sighs, “but we were always so busy then. Cardiff, on the other hand. At least it encouraged us to improve our bridge.”

“Oh yes,” adds Betty. “We’re looking forward to Mike’s retirement so we can go on those cruises and play bridge all day.”

“And watch _Les Mis_ on vid at night.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Greg says, suppressing a shudder. “Excuse me.” He swings around to see who’s been prodding his shoulder, tamping down his disappointment when it turns out to be Sally and not Sherlock as he’d secretly hoped. But then, Sherlock would probably have prodded more insistently.

“Mike, lovely to see you.” Sally smiles before taking Greg by the arm and steering him away from the Stamfords. “I have,” she begins, and the quietness of her voice tells him how truly angry she is, “searched the whole of this building twice, including the cell blocks, and I’ve even been up three times to your office. I’ve phoned but he just lets the phone ring. I’ve texted him and the first five texts were actually kind of nice and polite even though he’s the sodding freak…” Here her voice takes a frantic leap into a higher register. “...and the _frigging_ bastard can’t be arsed to answer them.”

Her grip on Greg’s arm tightens. “I just…” She pauses, doing him the kindness to choose her words and weigh them in her mind before hurling them onto the floor, like she used to do in the past. “Greg, I just don’t understand. How can he do this to you? After all these years? I… I, sod him, _sod him_ , has he forgot everything you’ve done for him? How often you’ve saved his sorry arse? Has he forgot the state he was in when you first found him? And yet you’ll forgive him, again, you always forgive him. Bloody hell, Greg, I really want to smack him in the face right now… or… or shove him off a roof or something.” Her hand flies up to her mouth and her eyes spring open wide. “Sorry,” she mutters, “sorry, you know I didn’t… But Jesus, Greg… He must know how important his presence would have been to you and…”

“Sally.” He pats the hand that’s clutching at his biceps. “CSI Donovan, calm down. That’s an order. Hey, this is a party, you’re supposed to amuse yourself, you know? Have fun, talk to people. You know what he’s like. He never liked parties and besides he’s probably busy with some experiment, blowing up his flat, whatever… Also, we said goodbye three days ago.”

_“I’ll be seeing you, then,”_ Sherlock had said before sending the coat swirling around his form, which was still as trim as the day they first met, and walking out of Greg’s life. Little likelihood of him attending Greg’s funeral either. Not that Greg would be around any longer to mourn the fact. And never mind all the hours he’d wasted staring at a headstone erected over an empty grave.

“Here, be a good girl and have a taste of your favourite poison.” Greg lifts a glass of white wine from a tray that’s floating past and presses it into Sally’s trembling hand. “I hadn’t counted on him showing up. I’m not upset and you shouldn’t be, either. Look, that’s the Assistant Commissioner over there. Now instead of spending your time here yelling at me you’d better snuggle up to him a bit. Do that office politics thing I never got the hang of.”

He’d been offered the position of Detective Superintendent just before his forty-ninth birthday but he’d declined, reasoning it would mean he'd have to spend more time inside on administrative duties and less outside on the job, thus cutting down on the time he could spend in Sherlock’s proximity. It proved to be the last straw for Cynthia. She packed her bags and Steven and went to live with her PE teacher. 

For Steven’s sake – the kid was only seven at the time and he loved him – he tried to argue with her but she kept shouting that he was the one who’d started it and that she was done sharing a bed with a man who didn’t appreciate her because he was too busy having it off in his head with some “ _fucking junkie genius_ ”. 

“He’s not a junkie,” he came to Sherlock’s defence, “not anymore.” 

Cynthia stared at him for a moment, eyes wide in disbelief, and then she buried her face in her palms. Her shoulders – still pretty they were, he could see that – heaved. “Oh God,” she moaned, “oh God, Greg, how…? Here you are, a grown man, a father of three children, my children, our children, and could you just listen to yourself?”

When she lowered her hands he could see her mascara was smudged around her eyes, which were swollen and red. 

“He’s not a junkie,” she mocked his words. “If he’s not a junkie what does that make you? His Prince Charming on a white horse, coming to kiss him awake? Christ, why couldn’t you just have _fucked_ him when you found him and be done with him? You needn’t even have told me. Just shagged the little whore and got him out of your system. I wouldn’t have been happy but I would have understood, I would have forgiven you. We would still have had a marriage at least.”

“He isn’t a whore. He wasn’t a whore. Stop calling him that.”

“No, isn’t he? Tell me then, how did he come by the money, if not by whoring his arse out to anyone who’d have him, to sustain his nasty little habit? Your _fucking_ virgin damsel in distress! Don’t you remember where you found him, Greg? He was a junkie, and a liar, and a whore, and a thief! He stole you, Greg! He stole you from me, and I hate him for stealing my husband, stealing the man I loved and I hate you for letting it happen. You’re besotted with him. You’re no better than a lovesick teenager.”

“Look, I can go sleep in Robbie’s room…”

“No! Christ, are you being this thick on purpose? Listen, Greg, I want a man, not some zombie who doesn’t even notice when he’s lying on top of me. You haven’t touched me, truly touched me, for the past seven years. David does, he regards me as more than just a convenience to do his cooking and laundry and an opportunity to get off, all the while wishing it was his _fucking junkie genius boyfriend’s arse_ he was ploughing!”

“Cynthia, please. I don’t… You’re my wife, Cynthia. For better or worse, remember?”

And so it had gone on but the inevitable outcome had been Cynthia and Steven living with the PE teacher, whose name was David, in Ruislip, and him in a tiny flat in Sotheby Road, which he couldn’t possibly afford on his pension.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Donovan asks him. He nods like a brave little boy and gives her a push in the right direction to a further advancement of her career.

“Uncle Greg!” A pair of hands is folded over his eyes from behind. 

“Sheryl,” Greg cries, tugging at the hands and spinning around to embrace an excited Sheryl Watson. “What are you doing here, girl, at your Uncle Greg’s retirement party? Don’t you think it’s _boring_? My, don’t you look lovely in that pretty dress.”

“Do you like it? Mum said it was too sexy for me,” the busty fifteen-year-old pouts.

“It _is_ too sexy for you,” her mother says, “too bad you’re just as good at twirling your father around your little finger as your Uncle Sherlock is. Hello, Greg, aren’t you Mr Popular himself? The Tube was less busy than this place, never mind it was the rush hour.” Mary stands on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek.

“Most of these people are here to make sure I’ll definitely leave,” Greg jokes, returning the pecks with a brief hug. 

“Can’t say I blame them.” John has popped up between his wife and daughter and now grabs Greg in a bear hug. “They must be so happy to finally see the back of you and have their chance in the spotlights at last.”

“Flatterer.”

“And as humble as ever. You do realise that maddens them even further, don’t you?”

Laughing, Greg loosens himself from his friend’s embrace to shove him in the chest and pat his shoulder at the same time. “Stop blathering. What are you even doing standing here without a pint in your hand? I know it tastes like horse piss but you stop noticing after the second one and it gets the job done well enough.”

“I’ll go and find us some,” Mary offers. 

“Can I have a shandy, Mum?”

“Certainly not. Why do you even bother to ask?”

Another pout settles itself upon Sheryl Watson’s lips, for a moment making her look remarkably like the man she was named after. 

“Why on Earth would you want to drink horse piss mixed with perfectly good lemonade?” Greg asks her, his face serious, as if he’s really interested in the answer.

“Oh, Uncle Greg, stop it,” she giggles. Just as sudden she’s all thoughtful. “Is it true what Mum and Dad are saying, that you’re moving to Windermere? Please don’t. Who’s to take me to the cinema then? We could go even more often now you don’t have to work anymore.”

“Sheryl,” John warns.

“If you keep wearing such lovely dresses you’ll soon have plenty of boys fighting to take you to the cinema,” soothes Greg. It’s true, he thinks. She’s already taller than her parents with a good pair of legs, that bust, and she’s inherited John’s fine eyes. And she’s smart. Together they’ve spent many an afternoon, either at the cinema where he sat explaining in an undertone everything that was wrong with the police investigation enacted on the screen, or in the Met’s forensic labs where he lectured her on DNA and the fine art of dusting for fingerprints.

“Boys,” Sheryl spits. She’s a good actress. Greg surmises that’s Mary’s addition to the mix, but her remark lacks the proper disgust it carried whenever the subject rolled in half a year ago. Sheryl won’t miss her Uncle Greg, not really.

“I haven’t seen Sherlock,” Mary re-joins the conversation, burdened with three pints and a fizzy drink, and why must she be the one to bring up the subject that is turning out to be the recurring theme of Greg’s retirement party?

“No. Cheers.” Carefully, Greg lowers his mouth to the glass for another swill of lager. Thank God for the alcohol’s numbing capacities enabling him to smile at the Watsons when he raises his head again. “He isn’t here. I don’t know why. He forgot, I guess.” He stares hard at Mary, willing her not to breathe another word. 

If anyone would ever have taken the trouble to ask him how he viewed himself, the first term to crop up would have been ‘relaxed’. He honestly thought of himself as a relaxed person in general. Always had. He was the boy that dove between the warring parties in the school yard, shoving at the opponents and telling them to relax. During meetings, when Donovan sat fuming over Gregson’s underhanded, foul tricks, he was the one to jab her in the side and mouth at her to relax. Back in the days when Cynthia and he were still together, the few times an argument had arisen between them, he’d been the one to start the peace talks by buying her a bunch of flowers. Those would open the floodgates, and there would be some more shouting, but it always ended with an embrace and sweet kisses, and he’d tell her to just relax and then she’d take him by the hand, and… Well, that was then.

Relaxed. It must be true for he can’t see any other way for him to be standing here smiling and sharing a drink with the woman he loathes more than any other person in the world. For she shot him. She shot his love. His junkie not-whore, not-lover, the man he loves more than anyone in the world, yes, more than he loves himself and – and Christ, didn’t he hate himself for it, but it was the bare truth, wasn’t it, and he’d better be honest with himself, in his own mind at least, and now he should relax some – even more than he loves his children and grandchildren.

She shot him, risking his life, marring him. Sure, she's not the only one to ever point a gun at Sherlock and pull the trigger. Greg remembers the outcome of their rolling up of the Dickson gang quite well, thank you very much, but that had been Sherlock’s thigh and the shooter had been an _idiot_ according to his victim. Somehow Greg thinks Mary has a past in which idiots wouldn’t last very long. 

Not that anyone ever informed him about Mary Watson’s past. No, he’d worked out the fact it must be a bit smelly all on his own over the years. After all, he was a copper, wasn’t he, and quite a good one, actually. So he’d spent many hours in his flat, sitting down to his dinner with a beer and his chicken vindaloo, or spaghetti carbonara, or whatever had taken his fancy at Tesco’s, and thinking what could explain the Watsons’ strange behaviour so shortly after their happy marriage? That had led him to wonder whether it had anything to do with Sherlock being shot earlier while housebreaking into the penthouse of some newspaper magnate. He’d never been interested the hoity-toity figure before, but from what he set out to learn about the bloke he grasped the man was one hell of a nasty character, a blackmailer who loved lording it over people by dangling the threat of exposure of their secrets in front of their faces. Not nice. Greg shuddered Apart from Cynthia no one knew of his secret and he definitely didn’t wish it to be out in the open, even though there was nothing shameful about it. Then, a few months later Sherlock killed the magnate and Greg’s whole world threatened to fall apart in a different way.

But it had all started with bloody Mary Watson. Greg is certain of it. She must have been there in Magnussen’s office, when Sherlock and John were housebreaking. John admitted he’d left Sherlock unattended for a few minutes, unforgivable but true, and she shot Sherlock in Magnussen’s office, for whatever dark reason she had. Magnussen must have had some pretty heavy shit on her. 

Oh God, only imagine Sherlock had died then, truly this time, necessitating Greg to sit through yet another service struggling to hide the extent of his grief. And after that, to have to adjust to a life without Sherlock all over again. To never feel the joy humming deep in his gut again, as Sherlock’s whole face lit up and he stowed away his phone, or his magnifier, or whatever had helped set the synapses in his brain afire, in one of his pockets, before clapping his hands and shouting, “Oh, it’s Christmas!” or “It’s obvious, why didn’t I see it before?” and galloping of only God knew where to solve yet another crime. To never have Sherlock invade his personal space again, looking exasperated most of time, admittedly, but what did that matter? He was close and Greg could feel the heat emitted by Sherlock’s body glow on his face. 

One time Sherlock had swept his head quite close to Greg’s cheek and a curl had brushed his face, letting him feel how incredibly soft Sherlock’s hair was, even softer than it looked. For weeks afterwards he’d recalled the sensation on his face, touching the spot with his fingers and shivering every time at the memory of that strand of hair against the skin. 

Even better was the memory of the mad hug when Sherlock turned up in that garage after his return. His relief had been almost too much, but mixed in was the feeling of the narrow body against his, the one time he got to feel it, and more soft hair against his face. All right, Cynthia was right, he _was_ no better than a lovesick teenager. So be it. Mary had almost killed his love, _that_ was what Greg cared about.

Then later, John must have found out about Mary’s involvement somehow. That couldn’t have been easy, catching on to the fact your lovely wife had tried to kill your best friend a month into your marriage. But John had chosen to forgive her. Well, everyone had forgiven her, or so it seemed. Everybody was totally okay with the fact that they were living with a potential killer in their midst. Even Mycroft Holmes must be okay with her shooting his little brother, or John would have become a widower a long time ago. The same John everyone still considered to be Sherlock’s best – perhaps only – friend.

Everyone was fine with Mrs Watson’s murder attempt, except for Greg. He will never forget what she’s done, or forgive her, and she’s perfectly well aware of the fact but what does she care? Here they are, laughing and smiling at each other and playing at being all good friends and underneath the whole sunny set-up she’s laughing at him. She knows he knows and that it bothers him but if the British government himself doesn’t mind she has nothing to worry about, now has she? In three days he will board a train for Windermere and she will be rid of having to pretend she likes him and she will still see Sherlock and pretend to be his next-best mate, and Greg will be stuck up in the North and never see Sherlock again.

_“I’ll be seeing you, then,”_ Sherlock had said. His voice hadn’t changed at all over the years. The same posh accent and the gruff warmth, wrapping itself around you like some expensive, furry blanket.

The next moment Greg's startled out of his reverie as John blocks his line of view by shoving his mobile into Greg’s face. “Can you believe it?” he asks in a heated tone that makes Greg almost smile, it’s that familiar. Managing to keep a straight face Greg stares at the screen.

 

Sender: John Watson  
Where are you?

 

Sender: John Watson  
FYI, it’s Greg’s retirement party and you’re supposed to be at the Yard.

 

Sender: John Watson  
Answer me.

 

Sender: Sherlock Holmes  
I can’t come. I’m busy.  
SH

 

Sender: John Watson  
You can read, can’t you? GREG’S RETIREMENT PARTY!!!

 

Sender: Sherlock Holmes  
Three exclamation marks, John. Really? Stop pestering me.  
SH

 

“The fucking git! He can’t do this. I won’t have it. I’m calling him now.” John’s thumb hits the screen with excessive force. Looking at Greg, he brings the phone up to his ear while he stands waiting. Beside him, Sheryl rolls her eyes in an exact imitation of one of Sherlock’s more elaborate displays of exasperation. 

“John,” Mary says but her husband cuts off whatever she was going to say with a sharp gesture of his hand. His face is contorted with anger. Greg has a hard time recalling having seen his friend this livid. Maybe that time Sherlock almost succeeded in drowning himself in the Thames by jumping after a goddamn motorboat that was hurtling away from them at ninety miles per hour. But that had been fond anger, the good kind of anger.

“John,” he begins as well but John lowers the phone and stares at it. 

“The bloody bastard hung up on me,” he yells, punching the re-dial button again. “Oh great, and now he’s disconnected the phone, Jesus.”

“John, let it go. Hey, it’s not a big deal,” Greg lies. “He probably had more important things to do.”

“Yeah, like being a sodding, fucking twat who doesn’t give a fuck about his friends!”

“Language, John,” Mary reproves him with a sharp jerk of her head in Sheryl’s direction.

“Oh, I love it when Daddy swears,” the girl has the cheek to comment. “Though he’s never really creative at it. Not like Uncle Sherlock is.”

“Sherlock hardly ever swears,” John says.

“That’s what you think.”

“Look,” Greg interrupts the family squabble. “Let’s stop discussing Sherlock, okay? He’s not here but I’m fine with it. We said our goodbyes earlier. Like I said, not a big deal. You’re all here and that’s what’s important.”

“Hear, hear,” Mary says. “You listen to that, John.”

“Yes, Greg, Jesus mate, you’re right. Come here.” Greg is pulled into another hug by the smaller man and he lets it happen, closing his eyes for a moment against the sting of the tears he feels pricking behind them.

In the beginning, when Sherlock and John first met, he’d been so jealous. Mad with envy, first and foremost, at all the time John shared with Sherlock, living in the flat with him. If he wanted to, John could be with Sherlock all day long, from breakfast to dinner and after. 

Later, when the lewd jokes and less innocent witticisms at Sherlock and John’s expense began circulating, the green jaundice had feasted on him, busily gnawing away at his insides. He’d stand at a crime scene, slurping the coffee an attentive constable had provided them with, looking down on Sherlock’s crouched form as he sat firing off his deductions at John, pretending not to hear the suppressed giggling behind his back. There’d be bets on when the happy couple would announce their engagement, or worse, sniggering arguments over which one of them had the upper hand in bed. In vain he’d instruct his mind to ignore the snickering. Off his imagination would go, spinning on a merry-go-round. 

Sherlock’s mouth swimming up in the soft-focus of an arty seventies porn flick, lips half-parted and dewy like the petals of some fucking flower, tongue shiny and wet in the warm cavity of his mouth. Oh Christ, he was beautiful, beautiful, with his eyes all the colours of the rainbow. They were begging for it (that still didn’t make him a whore), and he’d get it, for he always got what he wanted, didn’t he? Greg watched in horror every single time, unable to shift his eyes, however much he wanted to. For it was John Watson’s dick that was shoved past those gorgeous lips, into the soft, welcoming warmth, John Watson’s dick the supple tongue teased, John Watson’s dick that got sucked.

Or he would picture Sherlock naked, except for one of those flashy robes of his, and John standing before him, pushing at Sherlock until he sank down on the sofa, long thighs falling open, helpless… He’d order himself to stop it, right there, and that night, or the next, whenever he saw his own bed again, once Cynthia’s breathing was regular and even, he’d lift himself up from the conjugal bed and tiptoe to the loo where he would take himself in hand to re-enact the scenario. First he’d shove John aside, never mind if he had to use force, so he could be the one to trail kisses down that maddening, white throat that had badgered him from behind that sodding scarf for the past two days. He would be the one to brush his hand over one of those endless legs, from the tip of the ridiculously long and narrow foot, over the shin and along the thigh. Beneath his hand he felt the taut muscles, not overly pronounced but strong nevertheless, like a runner’s, and the hairs crinkling under his palm. Up and up his fingers travelled until they hit the spot where Sherlock’s thighs met. There they’d play; rolling Sherlock’s balls, furry and soft and then higher to stroke his cock, which Greg imagined to leap into his hand out of a nest of curls as downy and rich as those on top of his lover’s head. Sherlock would murmur his name ‘Greg’, his voice all off-key because Greg was stroking with steadfast determination now, faster, faster still, until Greg’s name became a chant, turned over and over inside his head to be replaced with Sherlock’s.

He’d come to himself again because one of the children was battering the door, calling sleepily for whoever was inside to ‘hurry up’ for they were nearly peeing into their pants. With a sigh he’d raise himself from the toilet seat, swipe at the drops of sperm that had escaped the swathe of toilet paper he’d used, tuck himself back into his pyjama pants, flush the toilet, wash his hands and gaze at his offspring as he opened the door.

“Hi Dad,” Robbie or Cindy or Steven would mumble and shuffle past him. He’d make some inane joke about strangers in the night and tousle their hair and then he would slip back into the bed next to Cynthia, turning his back on her so he could be with Sherlock a little longer.

One day, about a week after they’d closed a particularly nasty case that had Sherlock jumping up and down in glee at the – frankly horrid and stinking to high heaven – crime scene, John and he met at their usual on Marylebone Road to watch the football and have a few. Arsenal was playing like a team of lousy, overpaid wankers, and Greg turned away from the screen in disgust. That was when John started complaining how he was sick to death of the constant assumptions and insinuations with regard to him and Sherlock.

“I mean, I’ve dated four women in the past six months. I’m not bragging about the number, I wasn’t happy when Jenny called it off, and I really liked the others as well. Even Mrs Hudson assumes it’s some smoke screen to hide that Sherlock and I are having it off the moment she turns her back on us. I’m sick to death of it.”

Greg nodded, like he understood. In order not to have to comment he took another swig of his beer.

“I’m not gay,” John continued his rant, “and even if I were I wouldn’t choose Sherlock. He’s impossible to live with. I found him drilling holes in the kitchen table yesterday, to prove some mad theory about a murder in Sydney. Mrs Hudson wasn’t too happy about that, I can tell you.”

“Hmm hmm.” Greg nodded some more. He was a very understanding mate right then. He dipped his upper lip into his beer again to hide the joy John’s words gave him.

“Besides, even if I were gay and wanted to shag Sherlock he’d never agree to it. ‘Not his area’, that’s what he told me the night we met. He’s simply too busy in his head to even consider having sex with someone. His brother once sneered at him about it, and I thought it was nothing but a stupid remark at the time, they’re always fighting, but later I decided Mycroft was right. Sherlock doesn’t know a thing about sex. He could be a monk. It simply doesn’t interest him.”

Those words were a blessing too, even though it was a mixed one. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t bring your girlfriends to the flat,” Greg suggested. “From what you tell me, I understand Sherlock is the one who chases them away. Make sure you’re engaged to the girl by the time you have the two of them meet.”

Good advice, that. John had followed it to the letter.

Upon opening his eyes again he notices Cynthia and David in the opposite corner, with Robbie and his wife, Laura, a really nice girl, and Steven and his boyfriend, Rhys, pressing close behind them. Cynthia smiles and waves at him.

“John, Mary, you Sheryl, thank you for coming.” Greg lets go of John’s shoulders. “Enjoy the rest of the party. Cynthia and the boys just got here, I should go over. We’ll be seeing each other soon.”

“Yes, Greg.” Mary smiles sweetly at him.

“Oh, Uncle Greg.” Sheryl throws herself at him and that’s good; it’s good to feel appreciated.

“Have fun with the boys, Sheryl. Just don’t forget your homework,” he says, gently freeing himself from her arms. Through the throngs of people he pushes his way towards his ex.

“Greg.” Cynthia plants a generous kiss on his cheek. “What a turn-up. You said it was to be just a small gathering.”

“Yeah, I hadn’t expected this many people would want to see the back of me. David, glad you could make it.”

“Of course, Greg.” David shakes Greg’s hand cordially. They get on well enough, meeting at birthdays and weddings and even sitting down to the same Christmas dinner on occasion.  
David is a fine man, a good husband for Cynthia and a good friend to their children. At every meeting he eyes Greg with disbelief, as if he still can’t grasp why Greg would ever give up on such a wonderful woman as Cynthia. The funny thing is, if Greg had been in David’s place, he would have felt the same.

“Hello Dad.” The boys hug him. He hugs them back; they’re good men, both of them. Cynthia and he didn't do too bad a job with them.

“Have you already packed, Greg?” Cynthia asks, turning to the practicalities as is her wont. 

“No,” he answers, “there isn’t that much to pack and I won’t leave till the third. Plenty of time left.”

“I can help if you want me to. I’ll need to drop by anyway as Cindy asked me to buy her some sheets and towels in the sales and I reckoned you might pack those as well.”

“The van is big enough,” Greg says. They all fall silent. Steven drags his feet a bit. “Hey lad,” Greg addresses his youngest, “why don’t you go and fetch us all something to drink?”

“Yes, Dad.” Steven shuffles off into the general direction of the bar. 

“Such a lot of people,” Cynthia comments. Holding onto David’s arm she smiles at Greg but he notices her eyes are busy scanning the crowd. 

“No, he isn’t here,” Greg forestalls her remark. “We already said goodbye.”

_“I’ll be seeing you, then,”_ Sherlock had said, his hands arranging the scarf around his neck, flashes of white against the blue wool. His long fingers, violinist fingers, still supple, had tugged at the fabric.

“He doesn’t care for parties,” Greg adds for good measure. “He’s not the sentimental kind.”

“Oh no,” Cynthia says. “So much I’d gathered.”

Right then he hates her, no matter that it’s mean and spiteful and unjust, because she didn’t ask for it, did she? Neither did he, but it happened, and doesn’t he rue the day when it did? It stings, deep in his gut (though that might also be the lousy beer), it hurts and eats away at him, the fact that Sherlock didn’t deem Greg’s retirement party important enough to attend, if only for half an hour. Greg thought they were colleagues, hoped they were friends – it wouldn’t do to call Sherlock a mate – but now it turns out he meant nothing to Sherlock. All the twenty-five years they’ve known each other, nothing. Easy access to cases, that’s what their relationship was about. Now Greg is retiring and he’s lost his usefulness. Sherlock is already over and done with him. No doubt he's sitting plotting in his chair right now which sucker at the Yard he will approach with Greg gone. Dimmock, probably, he’s always been in awe of Sherlock ever since he solved that case with the yellow graffiti.

It’s maddening and he’s angry, really angry, but most of all it hurts. Goddamned bloody Christ, it hurts.

Unbidden, the memory of Mrs Hudson’s funeral flashes in his mind, together with a scattering of pictures of her last months. She continued living at Baker Street right until the end. Shortly after she turned seventy-eight her hip got so bad she couldn’t bring Sherlock his morning tea any longer. Sherlock solved the problem by asking his brother to arrange for a stair lift to be installed. Once Mrs Hudson accepted the idea she went on bringing Sherlock his tea to the great satisfaction of both. The other housekeeping tasks were gradually taken over by a team provided by the elder Holmes brother as well. Mrs Hudson was happy for the company, chattering away at the cleaning woman she got courtesy of the British taxpayers, while Sherlock grumbled and shouted at them to stop rearranging the toxic waste dump that was the interior of 221B.

A year and a half ago, Mrs Hudson’s health suddenly took a turn for the worse. The hospital was visited and the verdict, an aggressive stomach cancer, given two weeks later. There was talk of Mrs Hudson staying at the hospital, when Sherlock astonished them all by saying he would take care of his landlady. 

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” he complained to Greg, who sat completing the paperwork on the artificial diamonds case Sherlock had just solved. “She can’t stay at the hospital, obviously. Mycroft arranged for a private room but the shade on the walls is bound to drive even the most patient of patients around the bend in no time. She’s suffering enough as it is. If she has to die she might as well do it at home, surrounded by her own wallpaper. Not that that’s any less horrid, but it’s _her_ wallpaper.”

The next day Mrs Hudson’s bedroom had been transformed into a first class hospital room and a nurse was hired to look after the patient. Sherlock spent her last weeks at her bedside, reading her a book or the newspaper or playing his violin for her, only leaving the room when the nurse had to assist her.

“She is, after all, my housekeeper,” he explained when Greg came over with some cold cases to keep Sherlock amused during the hours Mrs Hudson spent sleeping. “We may have shared these premises for twenty years, but during those years we’ve refrained from crossing certain boundaries, and I don’t think it would do to start crossing them now.”

“No, I suppose not.” Greg nodded. “Bloody hell, she’s wasting away real quick.”

“Yes. Three or four days at the most, according to John. He came to visit her yesterday, or say goodbye, rather.” Sherlock stood up abruptly and went to look out of the window, turning his back on Greg. “I’ll miss her,” he said, “even though I have her on semi-permanent mute half the time.”

After Mrs Hudson’s death Sherlock remained installed at Baker Street. A few weeks later Greg enquired when he would start looking for a new flat as the property was bound to be sold by Mrs Hudson’s great-niece. Sherlock startled him by admitting his landlady had managed to spring a surprise on him post-mortem by leaving the house to him. 

“Mycroft took care of everything,” he explained, waving his hand breezily. Greg understood this meant Sherlock hadn’t burdened himself with sorting out the financial particulars of his inheritance, clearly considering himself above such lowly details. His mind boggled at the amount of money that had been tossed at Sherlock through the property. The great-niece, he learned, had been the lucky inheritor of Mrs Hudson’s kitchen inventory and recipe books, as well as the products of her doily-making class. 

“Apparently Mrs Hudson considered it unlikely I’d turn to baking as a pastime. In her own way she was a sensible woman,” Sherlock chuckled. “How do you take your tea? Milk, sugar, how much?” he went on.

“I don’t care for tea,” answered Greg. “Bloody hell, Sherlock. That’s some inheritance you got. Will you let out the ground floor?” 

“Don’t you?” Sherlock ignored his question. “Mrs Hudson always served you tea, didn’t she?”

“No, she made me a coffee. Or she got me a beer. She usually had some in the fridge.”

“Well, I couldn’t have known that, could I? I thought it was tea, but I suppose that must have been Mycroft. He never drinks coffee, says it gives him heartburn. Any excuse so he can keep stuffing himself. Tell me, how do you take your coffee then?”

The coffee had been undrinkable. Judging by the look on his face Sherlock’s tea wasn’t much better. They lowered their mugs simultaneously. Sherlock sighed and stared hard at the liquid in his own mug. “I confess, I don’t miss the inane chatter, but she really made a good cup of tea,” he said.

221A remained empty, a shrine to the most tolerant of landladies, complete with kitchen inventory and frilly doilies on every flat surface as the great-niece refused her inheritance. Every now and then Greg met a pair of harassed-looking women when visiting Sherlock. These, he understood, were the government cleaners whose employ was continued to ensure the whole house didn’t turn into a biohazard.

“Here we are.” Steven arrives right then, carrying a tray with pints for the men and glasses of red wine for the women.

“Good boy.” Greg pats him on the shoulder. He’s about to reach for his pint when his phone chimes with a text alert. “Excuse me,” he says and lifts his mobile from his pocket to read the text. 

 

Sender: Sherlock Holmes  
Is the party over yet?  
SH

 

“What is it?” inquires Cynthia.

“Nothing,” Greg mumbles while composing his answer.

 

Sender: Greg Lestrade  
No.

 

Flicking his thumb to send the text hurtling through the ether, Greg smiles at the company to ask for their patience.

 

Sender: Sherlock Holmes  
I’m sorry to hear so. Come over, once you’re free to go.  
SH

 

Greg is still reading the text when the next alert sounds.

 

Sender: Sherlock Holmes  
Or now, if convenient.  
SH

 

“Anything wrong?” Cynthia’s voice interrupts. 

A little dazed, Greg looks up from his phone. 

“Nothing important,” he tells her and stashes the mobile into his jacket. Smiling reassuringly, he grabs his pint. “Cheers.”

“Cheers, Dad.” Robbie clinks their glasses. “And you can congratulate me.”

“The Manchester exhibition,” Greg remembers.

“Yes, it’s a deal.” Robbie says, beaming. He’s a painter, producing big canvasses with incomprehensible titles such as ‘The Repetition of the Morning Glory. Number One.’ Secretly Greg thinks Robbie spends more time thinking up the titles than throwing paint onto the linen, but lots of people with lots of money seem to like it. Personally, Greg prefers to spend his time in the football stadium rather than inside a museum so he’s hardly the person to criticise his son’s efforts. 

“Well, living that close, I won’t have an excuse for not visiting,” he jokes.

“Dad!” Laura pretends to be shocked.

A discussion on the merits of Robbie’s paintings is launched but Greg doesn’t hear a word.

 

_Sender: Sherlock Holmes_  
 _Or now, if convenient._  
 _SH_

 

So Sherlock wants to properly say goodbye to him after all. That shouldn’t make him that happy, should it? Here he is, surrounded by his loving family, friends, appreciative ex-colleagues... 

 

_Sender: Sherlock Holmes_  
 _Or now, if convenient._  
 _SH_

 

He’s just turned sixty-seven, for God’s sake. Yet here he stands, sweating like a lovesick teenager, and all he wants to do is run off to Baker Street and find out what Sherlock can possibly have to tell him. To look at him, one last time…

 

_Sender: Sherlock Holmes_  
 _Or now, if convenient._  
 _SH_

 

Steven is saying something but Greg doesn’t hear a word. His glass is empty – when did that happen? – and he puts it onto a nearby table. A little too pointedly perhaps, as everybody gazes up at him suddenly.

“Look,” he says, “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

“Greg!” Cynthia paws at his arm, a worried frown on her face.

“It’s all right, Cynthia. It’s just… I’ve got to go, okay? Call me tomorrow about the sheets and everything. Goodbye.”

He turns on his heels and flees them, fighting his way through the mass of bodies thronging the canteen. People grope at him: “Hey, Greg”, “Hey, mate,” but he shakes himself loose and pushes himself forwards until he finally reaches the door of this prison. He wriggles through and then he is free, breaking into a run toward his office to grab his coat. 

Sadly, he can’t take the steps two at a time any longer, but he still scales the stairs easily enough. He lifts his coat from its hook, throws a last look around the room that has been a huge part of his life for the past thirty-four years and then he hurries down the stairs, out of the building and into the Tube.

Half an hour later he rings the bell of 221B and uses the key Mrs Hudson presented him with fifteen years ago – “After all, you’re the police, aren’t you?” she’d said – to open the front door. Inside all is dark but the sound of the violin greets him, floating down the stairs. Something gentle and sweet. Greg doesn’t recognise the melody. But then, he knows as little about classical music as he knows about art. He pushes the front door shut. The sounds of the violin continue unabated, beckoning him up the stairs.

Like a snake charmer, he thinks, laying his hand on the railing and starting the trek up the seventeen steps. Once on the landing he knocks on the door to the flat. 

“Come in,” Sherlock’s baritone calls out over the music. The last phrase of notes ends with a flourish. 

Greg pushes at the door to find Sherlock turning away from the window to place the violin into its case. He’s dressed in his usual at-home garb of a flimsy silk dressing gown over his shirt and suit trousers, looking as incredibly elegant as ever. The long toes at the end of his naked feet dig into the carpet as he motions with a long hand for Greg to shuck his coat. 

“Sit down, Greg,” he says. “I trust the party was tedious in the extreme.”

“Yeah, well…” Greg begins pulling at his sleeve. However, he stops when his gaze falls onto the chair on the left of the fireplace.

“That’s my chair,” he says, gawking at the scuffed brown leather of his hideous but very comfy recliner. His Arsenal scarf is draped over the back. He recognises the scarf from the ketchup stain below the ‘s’. Actually, the ensemble doesn’t look too out of place in 221B’s eclectic interior.

Sherlock snorts. “Pointing out the obvious as usual, Greg,” he huffs. “Of course that’s your chair. Two of Mycroft’s minions nearly strained their backs hoisting it up the stairs.”

“But… what…”

Now Sherlock gives him one of his more dramatic eyerolls. “Please, Greg,” he groans, “Windermere. What on earth were you thinking? You’d survive two months at the most before dying of boredom, or worse. The last even remotely intriguing murder in that vicinity was committed during World War I. And that wasn’t even in Windermere itself, but ten miles to the north.”

“I don’t know. My daughter…” All Greg can do is gape, from his chair, to Sherlock, who already looks fed up with Greg’s slowness and stupidity, and back to the chair again.

“… is thirty-five years old and perfectly able to take care of herself,” Sherlock ends the sentence for him. 

“But…”

“For God’s sake, Greg!” Sherlock stalks up to him, the gown swirling dramatically around his legs. “It’s all perfectly simple. I told Mycroft about your preposterous idea and he said it probably had to do with money, your pension not being sufficient to pay the rent or… some such ridiculous detail. If that’s the case it is only logical you should move in here. The place is big enough for both of us and you’re here half the time anyway.” 

“You want me to live with you?” Greg pants, his mind reeling as it grasps the meaning of Sherlock’s words. “Jesus, Sherlock…” He feels like pinching himself, convinced he’ll wake up the moment he does so, he must be dreaming. He _is_ dreaming.

Meanwhile Sherlock has flung himself down in his chair and is now eying Greg with a bemused frown on his features. Greg knows that expression; it means Sherlock is busily reassessing his observations. 

“Mycroft is usually right about these things,” he says. “I don’t understand. You’ve always lived for your work. You love solving crimes together with me, you’re still the best of the lot and the Yard won’t hesitate to make use of your services the minute your offer them. You _hate_ the outdoors. Or were you really contemplating to take up fishing?” Another eyeroll accompanies his question.

“No, I…” Greg clears his throat. Both his heart and his mind are in a whirl. 

Somewhere in the back of his head the voice of reason reminds him he should be angry at the sheer arrogance of the action. How dare Sherlock just arrange the removal of Greg’s things to Baker Street, without consulting him first, presuming Greg would be totally okay with it? And yes, as ever the voice of reason hits the nail on the head.

“Look, you can’t…,” he begins. _”Just tell him,”_ reason urges. Greg wants to, he really does, but how can he even start doing so when Sherlock is basically offering to spend the rest of Greg’s life with him. Not as lovers, obviously, but it’s the next best thing and certainly more than he has ever hoped for. “It’s a bit sudden,” he says instead, hating himself for giving in so quickly, but hell, who wouldn’t if he found himself in Greg’s position? 

“Yes, I suppose it is,” the gorgeous creature affirms with a smug smile, thankfully as oblivious as ever to the effect his presence has on Greg. The arrogant prat just assumes Greg’s spine is moulded out of sugar, as he has done for the past twenty-five years. It ought to be humiliating but Greg has spent a lifetime getting used to it. “You ought to have told me earlier. Though I’m grateful, actually. If you had told me your plans I’d have had to waste weeks trying to talk you out of the ridiculous notion. Now I had no option but to act quickly and make the most of that stupid party to have your stuff moved. The sheer amount of paraphernalia you amassed in that flat was a bit overwhelming, to say the least. I had to text Mycroft to send some extra men and…” Sherlock’s eyes widen and a snarl flits over his features. “Speaking of the devil himself,” he ends.

“Good evening.” The elder Holmes brother enters the flat, wielding his umbrella and looking around him as if he owns the place. Which, in a way, he does, Greg supposes. “I came to check whether everything went according to plan? Have you already settled in nicely, Mr Lestrade?”

“Errm, yes. I think so,” Greg manages. His mind is working overtime. In addressing him Sherlock’s brother has just painfully reminded Greg that he has indeed retired. Also, _Christ_ , of course sharing a flat with Sherlock will mean having to deal with the British Government on an almost daily basis, in his new capacity as ordinary civilian no less. He throws a quick gander at the suave figure gazing around the room with a frankly terrifying smile. The idea of bumping into Mycroft Holmes at nine in the morning is a bit unsettling. With a start Greg realises he doesn’t even own a dressing gown. Probably should buy one at Marks and Spencer first thing tomorrow. It wouldn’t do to greet the most important man in the Kingdom in his pyjama bottoms. Maybe he should buy himself some fresh pairs of those as well, together with some new t-shirts to sleep in. 

And of course this will mean he’ll chance upon Sherlock on a regular basis clad in nothing but _his_ pyjama bottoms as well. Jesus _fucking_ Christ. Well, it’s not like he’s forty-two anymore, the time his morning erections were as regular as clockwork is long past. Still, he’ll go for the dressing gown of the thickest terrycloth he can find.

“All happy, little brother?” Mycroft Holmes enquires in a pleasant tone.

“Yes, Mycroft.” Sherlock scowls. “Now you can make us all even happier by making yourself scarce.”

Another half-drunk talk with John surfaces in Greg’s mind; this time it was John grumbling about the territorial battles playing out in his own living room at all hours of the day and night. 

“It’s not like they’re fighting; that I would understand. This is more like, oh, I don’t know, mental trench warfare or something. Sherlock needling Mycroft about eating too many strawberry tarts as a kid and Mycroft retaliating by reminding Sherlock he got drunk during the first Christmas dinner he was allowed one glass of punch.”

Due to this memory Greg isn’t surprised to find Mycroft’s answer to Sherlock’s hostile remark is an indulgent chuckle. 

“Of course, brother dear. I only came over to see whether your new flatmate was comfortable with the arrangement you’ve sprung on him and to deliver you the goods for your part of the deal.” With those words he tosses a thick folder onto the table. “Quid pro quo, Sherlock.”

“Thank you, Mycroft,” Sherlock grits between his teeth. “I’ll have a look at your boring little problem when I can spare the time.”

“Three days we agreed upon, brother mine.”

“Yes, yes,” spits Sherlock, “now get out. You’re irritating as a rule and besides, you’re annoying Greg.”

“I…” Greg begins.

“No need to apologise, Mr Lestrade,” Mycroft interrupts with a bland smile. “Personally, I can’t imagine anyone in his right mind would contemplate living with my little brother, but Sherlock assured me the alternative would be even less palatable to you.”

“Well, yeah…”

“His name is Greg, Mycroft,” Sherlock shouts from his chair. “Go away! Your obnoxious presence gives me a headache and you’re wasting valuable investigation time.”

“Three days, Sherlock.” With that threat the elder Holmes brother whisks himself out of the room. In fifteen seconds the thud of the front door falling shut echoes through the house.

“It’s no use changing the locks,” Sherlock grumbles. “He’s as good at picking them as I am.”

“Jesus,” Greg groans, sinking into his chair.

“I can try and talk with him if his presence offends you,” offers Sherlock.

“Oh no, not at all.” He gazes at Sherlock, at the perfection that will be his view to enjoy for the rest of his days.

“Good,” Sherlock says, jumping out of his chair with the energy of a man who has yet to turn forty. “Dinner first, and then we’ll get rid of my brother’s tedious problem. I wish he would stop hiring total morons and turning to me whenever they fail at their boring little tasks. What would you like? Indian, Chinese, there’s a good Thai nearby.” He grabs a couple of menus from the coffee table and throws them at Greg. “My treat. Because I didn’t attend your dull party.”

Greg makes a swipe for the menus and – today obviously being his lucky day – manages to catch most of them. 

“It was a nice party, Sherlock,” he says. “You were sorely missed.”

“That’s because people are idiots,” Sherlock shoots back, tossing his curls, and Greg wants to laugh because he knew Sherlock was going to say that.

Instead he bends his head and pretends to study the menus. Pretend being the right word, as the letters swim before his eyes. 

_“I’ll be seeing you, then.”_ It hadn’t been a goodbye but a promise. Quite possibly he was already texting his brother while strolling away down the Yard’s corridors, arranging the next part of Greg’s life behind his back. 

He sniffs and blinks to clear his eyes, staring hard at the top menu in his hand. Then he smiles.

“Hey,” he says, “seeing as I won’t be going to Windermere after all, how about mashed potatoes with Cumberland sausage?”


End file.
